Not A Sound. Heather Gudenkauf

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      “Can I head on home?” I ask the officer. “It’s not far, just down this side of the ridge. I really need to get home,” I say. “I have an appointment that I’m already late for.” He hesitates and I know he’s grappling between following the order that he was given to make sure Evan and I get home safely and securing what could be a new part of the crime scene after Stitch unearthed the woman’s shoe. “Please,” I add. “Officer Snell has all my contact information. And I’m freezing,” I add for good measure. The officer reluctantly nods.

      Without meeting Evan’s eyes, I lift my hand in farewell and make a wide berth around where the shoe lies atop a pile of jewel-toned leaves. I climb back on the ATV and summon Stitch to join me. I turn the key and make sure the engine stop switch is in the run position, engage the clutch and start the engine. The scent of diesel fuel assaults my nose. Slowly, we begin the descent down the bluff.

      I have no idea if the officer has allowed Evan to leave too and I don’t look behind me to check to see if he’s following on his ATV. Periodically, Stitch lays his chin on my shoulder, his silver eyes imploring me to let him run ahead. “Zustan,” I say. Stay. The trip down the bluff goes more slowly than the first half. The rocky trail tapers and is so steep in spots that I’m afraid that the four-wheeler might tip over. If I didn’t have my board and paddle strapped to it, I would abandon the ATV altogether and walk the rest of the way. Though I’m glad to be rid of the officer and Evan, I find that I’m feeling a little bit exposed and vulnerable. Without my hearing, I have to rely on my vision to gauge the world around me.

      I have to so fully concentrate on maneuvering down the trail in front of me that I can’t be as cognizant of my surroundings as I usually am. I have no idea if someone is hiding in the woods, watching and waiting. Every shadow, each sway of a tree branch seems ominous.

      I mentally scold myself. I’m sure I’m perfectly safe. As an emergency room and sexual assault nurse examiner or SANE I know more than most people; I know that assaults are much more likely to be committed by an assailant familiar to the victim. But something nags at me. I’ve worked enough domestic assaults to know that most violence occurs in the home—not in a remote, wooded location. Could Gwen and Marty have been hiking the trails, gotten into an argument that escalated, resulting in her death? But that would mean that Marty would have removed her clothing and deposited her in the river to cover his tracks, destroying any evidence that might lead back to him. I only met Marty a few times, but he seemed like such a nice guy. I just don’t see it.

      It’s unnerving to know that a murderer may have recently been walking this very trail. I release my right hand from the steering wheel and reach behind me to rub Stitch’s head. He’s accepted his plight in having to remain on the four-wheeler and is contentedly surveying his surroundings. I know that he will immediately alert me if something’s not right.

      Finally, we reach the base of the trail and I can see my A-frame through the trees and much to Stitch’s delight I release him and he darts toward the house. Right now I’m living in a house that belongs to my dad. It’s just a simple fishing cabin where we would spend summer weekends when Andrew and I were kids. For now, this is the perfect place for me. The remote location keeps me out of the bars, the dozens of windows let the light in and the river is just yards from my door.

      I drive past three police cars and Jake’s unmarked vehicle that are parked along the gravel road that runs right up to my driveway. I stop the four-wheeler next to my storage shed. I don’t have a garage, just a covered car park where I keep my old Jeep. It’s one of the few things I came into my marriage with that was completely my own and one of the few I left with. I thumb into place the correct numbers on the padlock in order to unlock the door to the shed, unload my board and paddle and set them inside next to my kayak, cross-country skies and snowshoes.

      I drive the four-wheeler to where Evan has constructed a garage-like structure from log-cabin wood. This is where he stores his four-wheelers, canoes, kayaks, life jackets and other outdoor gear. I know this because all summer I’ve seen the wannabe outdoorsmen and women emerge from behind the hewn logs with all manner of outdoor gear. They are dressed in their two-hundred-dollar hiking boots, neoprene bodysuits and GoPro cameras.

      The garage is locked up tight so I leave the four-wheeler where I’ll at least be able to keep an eye on it from my house. I may not want to be in a coffee klatch with my neighbor but I also don’t want to be the one who let his four-wheeler get stolen.

      I trudge back to my house, about a football field away. My muscles feel heavy and achy. I’m chilled through and all I want to do is take a hot shower and curl up on the couch with Stitch and a cup of coffee. I kick off my water shoes, unlock the front door and call to Stitch. “Ke mne!” Stitch comes to my side as I open the door, waiting for me to enter first.

      I refill Stitch’s water dish that I keep in the tiny laundry room right next to my stacked washer and dryer, peel off my damp clothes and drop them to the floor and push open the door that leads to the only bathroom in the house. If I end up getting this job, if I still have a chance considering I missed the interview, the first thing I’m going to do is gut this area so that I can have the biggest, most luxurious bathtub I can find. Right now all I have is a primitive shower, and no matter how much I bleach and scrub it, the mold and mildew always return, creeping ominously up the walls. I turn the water to full throttle and step beneath the showerhead, letting hot spray wash away the mud and dirt and the chill of my morning trek.

      As my sore muscles relax under the stream of water I think back to the crime scene. I know that the police will probably want to interview me again about what I saw. Did I mention the beer bottle? I don’t think I did. I know I didn’t say anything about the extra set of footprints in the mud. Even though it will probably amount to nothing I should have mentioned it. The killer could have brought her through the thicket of prickly brambles, forced her over the piles of fallen timber. He could even have deposited her in the river somewhere upstream and she floated to the spot where I found her. None of these scenarios quite add up for me. Though Gwen was mostly submerged, the parts of her that were exposed—her face, her breasts, her feet, were remarkably unscathed.

      What did that mean? That she came willingly with him and he killed her on the scene? That would make most sense if they had been a couple that had been hiking. But wouldn’t there be another set of footprints? Surely there would be signs of some sort of struggle.

      Unlike most showers, the water in mine doesn’t gradually grow colder to let you know that the water heater isn’t keeping up. Instead, it goes from scalding, which is how I like it, to frigid. Usually I have it timed perfectly so I exit the shower before the water turns to ice, but today I am so deep in my thoughts about my discovery, I lose track of time and the icy water pours over me in full force.

      I slap the handle down and the flow stops. I step from the shower dripping wet, grab a towel from the dryer and wrap it round my midsection, then scurry up the steps to my bedroom that takes up the entirety of the second-floor loft. Teeth chattering, I stand in front of my open closet door where my interview outfit, still swathed in dry cleaner’s plastic, hangs.

      I reach into the closet past my interview outfit, hoping that I’ll still get a chance to wear it, and snag a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans from the top shelf. I hastily dress, and as I blow-dry my hair I run my fingers over the thick scar, courteous of my hit-and-run driver, that runs nearly ear-to-ear just above the base of my skull. My hair still won’t grow there but I’m able to cover it by keeping the top layers long.

      Through my glass door I see that the dark clouds are swelling and heavy with moisture. It looks like the kids of Mathias will be trick-or-treating carrying umbrellas and wearing rain gear over their costumes. Not that I’m going to have any trick-or-treaters knocking on my door tonight. It’s too rural, too remote out here. But I still put together a goodie bag СКАЧАТЬ